Susan Spillman


Miles from the axe factory he stops
for directions, wipes the iron gate rust
on dirty pants. The doorbell echoes

till a lady with an apricot poodle that matches
the flame pebbles of her long drive, that protects
her garden estate far from the city, answers

him like she’s used to no visitors
before dinner, the gravel silent as she sips
this twilight inside the door, listens

for the telltale crunch of her husband’s Mercedes,
takes a bite out of a green apple, munches
smiles, asks him, what is it then, he wants?


Susan Spillman: Bio

Susan Spillman: Artist Statement

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